


Stille Nacht

by koalathebear



Category: Homeland
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Crack, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 16:13:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5546849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koalathebear/pseuds/koalathebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set at the end of 5.12 A False Glimmer.</p><p>Written in response to laure001's <a href="http://carrie-quinn.livejournal.com/80899.html">Fan Fic Prompt: "Fuck that!"</a> over at the <a href="http://carrie-quinn.livejournal.com/">carrie-quinn livejournal community</a>.</p><p>I know that 5.12 wasn't set any time near Christmas, but I did some handwaving and it's Christmas Eve, ok? :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stille Nacht

**Author's Note:**

> Just a silly scribble not meant to be taken seriously, but it's a gift for all my fellow fans who have also suffered post-5.12.

Carrie stares at Quinn's face. It unsettles her to see it so quiet and pale. His chest rises and falls. The breathing tube keeps him alive.

"If we take it out, there's no guarantee that he can breathe on his own yet … or ever …," the doctors tell her, their faces grave.

"It's been weeks. Quinn wouldn’t want to be kept on a machine, barely alive …" Astrid's voice is a whisper. "He'd hate that. You know that."

"No," Carrie tells her in a strangled voice. "It's Christmas Eve … we're not deciding anything yet."

Astrid, the doctor and Saul exchange glances but Saul shakes his head. _Drop it_ he mouths and inclines his head towards the door. 

"We'll give you a moment," the doctor tells her.

"Fuck that and fuck you. Get out of here, we're not deciding anything tonight," Carrie tells him and Saul ushers the doctors out the door as he can see Carrie's anger ratchet up yet another notch.

Astrid walks over to Quinn's side and she touches his cheek lightly, her fingertips trailing across his skin. Then she leans over and presses a kiss to his forehead. " _Gute Nacht_ ," she whispers but there's a hint of a more permanent farewell in her voice.

"You get out, too," Carrie hisses, angered at the finality of Astrid's voice. "Anyone who wants to give up on him can just leave now."

"Carrie …" Astrid murmurs, her eyes bright with tears that she will never shed. "You can't stay here, it's Christmas Eve…"

"And what about Quinn? We just leave him here on Christmas Eve? Alone?"

Astrid reaches out and puts a hand on Carrie's shoulder for the slightest second before leaving the room.

"Do you really want him on a machine for the rest of his life?" Saul asks her gently. "Are you doing this or for him?"

" _Leave!!!!"_ Carrie almost howls and Saul and Astrid exchange speaking glances.

Then it's just Carrie standing by Quinn's bedside. The doctors have changed Quinn's status to "minimally conscious", meaning that his odds of recovering cognitive function drops close to zero.

"Damn you, Quinn," she mutters, staring down at his face fiercely. "I need you to fight this. Qasim saved you for a reason … we found you in time for a reason … it can't be for nothing…" 

*

An hour later, she's still standing there, her eyes dulled with pain. "Just do it," she tells the doctor.

"What? You don't want to consult – "

"No … they gave up on him already. They don't need to be here. Take out the tube, turn off the machine …"

Astrid's right. Quinn would hate living like this. He wouldn't even consider it living. Saul's right – keeping Quinn's body is something she's doing for herself rather than him … because she still wants a chance to talk to him … a chance to make it right.

"It's better this way, it really is," the doctor tells her gently. "We've seen this so many times before – there is no way he can come back from something like this and it's kinder to let him go peacefully."

"Peacefully? To gasp and choke for air?" she asks him. "Do what you need to do but don’t try to sugar coat it with bullshit."

She stands by Quinn's side, holding his hand and staring down at his face with fierce eyes as the doctors and nurses move about the bed, removing his tube, checking his vitals and then wheeling the cart away.

Quinn's breathing is harsh and laboured. "It won't be long now … " the doctor tells her gently before he leaves the room. 

Carrie drops into a chair beside Quinn's bed and buries her face in his side. She can hear the strains of Silent Night in German from outside the window and she lets herself sob quietly into crook of her arm.

*

"Well this isn't a very cheerful way to spend Christmas Eve, is it?" an unfamiliar voice remarks. Carrie's head shoots up and flicks around sharply in the direction of the voice.

The newcomer is an old man dressed in red trimmed with fur down to a red cap also trimmed with fur. His eyes twinkle merrily and he has a droll little mouth almost hidden by a snowy white beard. 

"The fuck!" Carrie hisses, diving down and pulling her gun out of her purse and training it on the newcomer warily. "How the hell did you get in here? What do you want?"

The plump and chubby man gives a laugh, completely unoffended by the fact that a gun is trained at his head. "My dear girl – put that away, you don't need that. You'll hurt someone if you're not careful."

"Is this some kind of sick joke?" she demands in a shaking voice. "Have you come to finish the job? Take a step closer and I'll blow your fucking head off."

He looks at her reprovingly. "Language," he reprimands her and Carrie's conscious of a ridiculous feeling of shame. He looks at Quinn lying on the bed and a momentary shadow passes over his cheerful face.

"Wipe your tears, my dear … it's Christmas and it's no time to be crying."

"Bull shit, everyone knows that Christmas time is the most likely time of the year to experience depression," she retorts, putting her gun down but keeping it within reach.

"Why are you crying?" he asks her. 

Carrie stares at him incredulously. "Are you some kind of moron? Look." She gestures at Quinn's body. "This is my friend Quinn … he's going to die …"

"Is that all?" he asks her.

"Isn't that enough?" she demands. He inclines his head at her and pulls out a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and pulls a list out of his pocket and peers at it owlishly. 

"I think there's more," he prods her.

She glares at him. She's definitely going to have to speak to her shrink about changing her meds when she sees him again.

"He's going to fucking die … and I'll never have the chance to apologise … to thank him for what he's done … "

"And?"

"And that's it," she tells him snappishly. 

The old man's mouth curves into a tolerant smile and he shakes his head. "Ah, denial is such a common trait …"

"Who are you?" she demands. "Are you the hospital priest or something? Don't you have something better to do than come into the rooms of coma patients and piss off their friends?"

The old man comes to stand beside Quinn's bed, ignoring the fact that Carrie's hand moves back towards her hand gun convulsively.

"I've made a list and I've checked it twice and I'm going to grant you your Christmas wish."

"I think I've been as far from nice as you can fucking imagine," Carrie retorts through gritted teeth.

"It's all relative," he tells her with a chuckle. "Now – your wish?" he prompts her.

"Can't you just read my mind or something?" she demands.

"Where's the fun in that?"

She rolls her eyes and exhales her breath in an exasperated puff. "Fine… " she wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand and stares down at Quinn's face. "I need to tell him how I feel … I need a second chance. I want my only friend back …" She touches his forehead and lowers her head and brushes her lips across his forehead and over his lips in an uncharacteristically sentimental gesture.

There's a strange shimmer in the room and Carrie blinks a little, feeling a little dizzy and unsettled. Suddenly Quinn gives a gasp and his eyes snap open before Carrie's astonished gaze.

"Quinn?"

"Carrie?" Quinn demands, his eyes flicking around the room. When he sees the stranger by his bed, he tenses up and seizes Carrie's handgun from the bedside table, aiming it at the old man.

"No, Quinn – don't!"

"Who the fuck is that?" Is he one of the Jihadists?"

"I don't think a Jihadist would dress up as Santa," Carrie mumbles.

"I don't believe this," Quinn mutters. "Who _is_ this guy?"

"I think he thinks he's Santa," Carrie whispers.

Quinn closes his eyes momentarily. "Did the Sarin cause fucking brain damage?" he asks, looking very pained.

"If so then I've got it, too…" Carrie retorted.

"You can put the gun down, Peter," the old man tells him in a kindly voice.

"You'll forgive me if I'm having trust issues at the moment," Quinn tells him in a harsh voice.

"Quinn – it's ok. Put it down … it sounds crazy, but I half believe him… the doctors said there was no hope …"

Quinn glances around the room, comprehension flooding his face. "So you unplugged me?" he questions and Carrie nods, tears in her eyes.

"I'm so sorry …"

Quinn gives her a crooked smile. "Don't be sorry … it was the right thing to do …"

"But you're back …" she breathes,"And I don't know how – but it seems to be – " 

Carrie and Quinn both turn and stare at the old man who is beaming at them, joy and happiness brimming about him. He pulls a pipe out of pocket, causing Quinn to train handgun on the old man's face.

Carrie reaches down and takes the gun away from Quinn wordlessly. "It's a non-smoking hospital," she tells 'Santa' firmly.

"And before I leave, it's time for your Christmas present, Peter Quinn," the old man tells him. He starts rummaging through the sack on his back.

"Wait up – how come I had to vocalise my wish?"

"Because you had to say the words aloud for yourself, not for me," the old man tells her. "I already knows what Quinn's Christmas wish is. Ah, here it is." He holds up a white envelope exultantly and Quinn's eyes widen in shock and horror when he realises what it is.

"You fucker," he mutters.

The old man gives a faint sigh. "You two are lucky I take a flexible view on my interpretation of 'nice'..."

"Hey we helped avert a terrorist attack, doesn't that count for something?"

Carrie stares at the envelope in the old man's hand. 

The old man smiles. He hands the letter over to Carrie who takes it automatically, staring down at it in confusion as Quinn glares at the old man fiercely. "Why does it have my name on it?" Carrie demands.

"Merry Christmas to you both," he tells them.

The door opens and a doctor comes in, his face grave, clearly expecting to find Quinn's body on the bed. He comes to a sudden halt and stares in amazement at the brown-haired man with bright blue eyes who regards him with a crooked smile.

"I'm not dead. Merry fucking Christmas."

Suddenly, Carrie grips Quinn's hand. "He's gone," she whispers and the two of them realise that the man in the red suit has vanished into thin air. 

"OK, this is definitely your ticket out this time, Quinn."

"What?" he asks distractedly, scanning the room in disbelief. 

"If the Sarin's not enough, if we tell the shrink at Langley that we both saw Santa, they'll be showing us the door quicker than we can say fuck you …"

That elicits a short laugh from Quinn. Carrie stares down at the envelope in her hand again.

"What is this?" she asks him and Quinn's smile twists. 

"Everything I ever wanted to say and couldn't …"

Carrie exhales slowly. She puts the letter down on the table. "Me first," she tells him. 

Quinn's pupils dilate and his face is wondering as Carrie leans in and brushes her lips against his. "Welcome back, Quinn," she whispers.

"It's good to be back," he replies, reaching out to pull her against him.

The doctor decides to come back later to get to the bottom of what is looking to be the first medical miracle in the hospital's history.

****

fin


End file.
